


Raindrops

by Karen T (poohmusings)



Category: The Pianist
Genre: Angst, Gen, Romance (Kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-01
Updated: 2003-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poohmusings/pseuds/Karen%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The remembering and making of memories, as set to Chopin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raindrops

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The usual. No profit, and no infringement or slander intended.  
>  **Notes:** You can blame this on Rhysenn. :) She's, thankfully, always making me "think  
>  outside the box." And this takes place entirely in the movieverse, sometime after Wladyslaw and  
> Captain Wilm Hosenfeld have met.  
>  **Warning:** There are hints of m/m slash in this story.

"You. Wake up."

Strong hands grip your shoulder and give you a hard shake, rattling your teeth.

Days, weeks, perhaps even months - you lost all sense of time long ago - of inactivity have dulled your senses and thrown you into a daze, so your reaction is slower than you would have liked it to be. It takes two more shakes and a gruff "Come now" before you realize you are not dreaming and your sleep has indeed been interrupted by an intruder.

Your eyes fly open as you uncurl your body from the fetal position and use your arms and legs to push away the figure that has been leaning over you. The instinct to flee builds up within you, and all you can think about is how you cannot die, not now, not after everything you've survived, everything others have sacrificed for you. Your hands have turned to fists and you are blindly striking at the figure before you. You had been taught by your father to fight with your mind rather than your hands, but you ignore that lesson. You will _not_ die.

"What are you-? Stop."

The hands that had been on your shoulder wrap themselves around your wrists and hold them above your head. Knowing that your attempts at overpowering the trespasser have failed, you stop fidgeting and look at the face that is staring down at you. Shadows keep his image hidden away until the clouds shift in the sky and a sliver of moonlight slides past a broken window onto his face.

It is the Captain.

The fear that had seized your body remains, but it begins to dissipate as a half-strangled sigh of relief trickles from your mouth. You even manage a small smile as your hazy mind continues to wrap itself around the fact that you are in the company of a friend - or as close to a friend as you will come to these days.

You assume he can tell you've recognized him for he releases your wrists. You instinctually draw them into your lap and rub them with the course pads of your fingertips.

His touch lingers on your skin.

You swallow and lick your parched lips. "How-" you attempt to ask, only your voice comes out as an unintelligible croak. The Captain leans against one of the dilapidated walls of your current domicile and patiently waits for you to regain your voice. "H-how did you...get here?"

He appears amused by your question for he chuckles and crosses to your side with two quick steps. Still laughing, he reaches down for the collar of your grimy outer jacket and helps you up to your feet. "You think you possess the only ladder in all of Poland?"

You muster another small smile and follow his gaze with your eyes until you see the top of the ladder that the Captain apparently climbed to reach your loft.

"Come," he says as he claps a jovial hand against your back, nearly knocking all the air out of your lungs. "I have something I want to show you."

He doesn't wait to see whether you will follow his command. By the time you have shuffled to the ladder, he has almost reached the ground.

You struggle down the ladder, pausing only once to blow warm air onto your numb fingers, and then trail after him in silence. He leads you through the various rooms of the house without speaking another word.

Your eyes flit over everything your gaze falls upon, and you soak up the images as if you are a parched man who has stumbled upon a cool spring. A few of the rooms you pass are dimly lit, but the majority lies dormant in darkness. And you notice that the disarray you'd encountered when you'd first entered the house has now been pushed to the corners of the rooms and up against the walls of the hallways.

"We're here."

The declaration snaps you from your trance, and you manage to come to a halt just before smashing into the Captain's back.

You are in the kitchen.

He turns to face you now, and he is clearly pleased with himself as he gestures toward two china teacups. Both have chips along their lips, but the damage is minimal and you assume the cups are still functional when the Captain picks up the one with the least damage and holds it out to you.

When you hesitate to accept his offering, he thrusts it closer to your face and nods towards it with his chin, as if to say, "Go ahead. Take it."

You cup your hands around the dainty glassware and almost drop it to the floor when the heat it is exuding shoots into your palms.

The Captain grins at the wonder that overtakes your face. "Feels good, no?" he asks as he reaches for the other cup.

You bob your head up and down and become mesmerized by the tiny tealeaves floating in the pale amber liquid. You can't remember the last time you tasted tea.

"Go and drink," the Captain suggests, although it sounds more like an order; you smile at this. "It will warm you up."

You raise the cup to your lips and your eyelids flutter shut for a second as the warm liquid dribbles into your mouth and down your throat. You're used to adding milk and sugar to your tea, so it's currently more bitter than you'd prefer, but it still tastes like heaven to you. You gulp down another mouthful, reveling in the warmth that is filling your belly.

The Captain is ready to refill your cup once it is empty, and your eyes are full of gratitude as you watch him do so.

You're aware that you're slurping the tea rather loudly - your mother would definitely wince if she heard you - but you don't care. And the Captain doesn't reprimand you or say anything for that matter until the second cup has been consumed and you are beginning to feel your limbs once more.

"There's...something I'd like to ask you," the Captain begins, and you look at him in surprise, somewhat astonished by the gentle, pleading tone of his voice. "There's this song my mother used to play when I was child. It...it went something like this: da-dum-de-dum-de-dum- dum..."

His singing is a bit flat, but you recognize the melody almost immediately and harmonize the tune in your head.

"Do you know it?" he asks you when he notices how your attention has drifted off.

"Yes," you mumble, still unsure of how - or if - you should speak to him.

"Play it for me now?" Again, it comes out as an order despite how it is posed as a question. And he appears to be aware of how curt his tone is for he grimaces and adds, softly, "Please?"

You nod, your cheeks burning under the weight of his eyes, and allow him to lead the way to the piano after he has filled your cup once more.

Tendrils of heat escape from the tea and swirl into the night air as the Captain pushes a door open and your eyes fall upon the familiar grand piano. All the tension in your muscles vanishes as you place the teacup onto the top of the piano and slide onto the rickety bench. The marred ivory keys are cool to your touch, but you find this refreshing.

Through your peripheral vision, you see the Captain receding into one of the room's dark corners, almost as if he doesn't wish to disturb this intimate moment between you and the instrument. Your joints hurt from the cold and a lack of daily movement, but you overlook your discomfort and place your fingers on the correct keys, position your right foot over the damper pedal, and pause for a moment, the tune of the requested piece running through your head.

And then, quietly, reverently, you begin to play. You keep your left hand steady and unassuming, the repetitive A-flat hypnotic enough to lull a child to sleep. With your right hand, the melody takes shape, a lilting refrain of beauty and faith that transports you back to your childhood.

As the harmonies shift from D-flat Major to C-sharp minor, you can hear Regina's bubbly laughter intermingle with Henryk's as they tousle over which station the radio should be tuned to. And then, off in the distance, you discern Halina's cluck of disapproval at Regina and Henryk's ruckus. But you can tell she isn't upset because she is smiling, at you. She is always so proud of you, her baby brother who could play like an angel. Soon, your father waltzes into the room with your mother in his arms, and they dance to the beat of your playing as Regina and Henryk fall silent. You are all happy, so happy.

But then things sour.

Your fingers stiffen and ooze contempt as you channel your anger and despair into the chords you are playing. You see the Captain jump a bit at the emotional shift in the piece.

Shutting your eyes to the decrepit world that currently surrounds you, you experience fear and cruelty, melancholy and panic, devastation and hope. Yes, there is always a glimmer of hope.

The piece switches moods once more and you--

Feel his hand - tender, caring - lying on top of yours.

"That's enough. Thank you," he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath skittering across your skin.

You nod and pull your hand out from under his. He rights himself and passes you your cup of cooling tea.

"It's late," he declares, his feet already taking him to the room's door. "My driver is waiting, and I should get home. Thank you for playing."

He gazes at you for a few seconds, perhaps waiting to see if you have any parting words. But when you remain mute, he does a brisk about-face and passes under the doorframe.

"Did you- Did my playing remind you of...a special moment?" You surprise even yourself when you hear your wobbly voice ask the question.

The Captain turns to look at you again, this time with a quixotic smile pushing up the corners of his mouth. "Of course," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours. "And perhaps it will remind me of you from now on."

And with that, he disappears from sight and you are left holding the tepid cup of tea as the touch of his hand and the timbre of his voice burn themselves into your skin and mind.

_-the end-_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes, part 2:** The piece I had in mind as what Wladyslaw is playing for the Captain is  
>  Chopin's Prelude in D-flat Major, Op. 28, No. 15, which is also often referred to as his  
> "Raindrop Prelude."


End file.
